i cooked up a soup
1 part music consisting of radio ghosts, trapped in the ionosphere
3 parts overwhelming physio-spatial synesthetic response to sound
1 scrip for repetitive motion sickness
a pinch of a horrifying/edifying run-in with ravel's bolero due to both items above
thousands of digital pages devoted to "the worst generation ever"
the air and plaque from the 2 ventricles of my jealous heart
a short list of the parties i never made it to
936 g-chats (and rising)
a whisper of the smell of the garbage bins down round the back
(which is where all your stuff is headed)

it tastes like truffle oil french fries
sprinkled with parsley
arriving with a side of aioli
and it goes down smooth like middle-shelf whiskey

which is a shame really
considering what went into it